Cutting Luck with a Dirty Ace
by sunsetofdoom
Summary: Identity is a matter of perspective; what changes? What stays the same? If Jak had been born a woman, if she had grown and changed with a woman's struggles instead of a man's, how would she be re-shaped? Starts with the beginning of J2.
1. Chapter 1

**Genderbend 'verse; Jak, Daxter, and Keira are all the opposite gender. The Dynamic Duo keep their names (because really, how do you get better than that) but Keira gets an extra 'n'. Warnings include: rape (mostly allusion, no graphic description), violence, torture, human experimentation, sexism, brainwashing, Erol.**

* * *

She stood in the storm, and when the wind did not blow her away, she adjusted her sails. -Elizabeth Edwards

0

It was a good day; sore as she was, the ring was finally in the right place, and Keiran was done with the tinkering. He'd smiled at her; after a single kiss in his makeshift garage, she feels like they've solidified some kind of connection that was waiting to come together.

And then, of course, Jak pushed a button she shouldn't have.

Which is when everything goes to hell.

1

They land hard, and Daxter's first instinct is, of course, to complain.

Jak lets her friend talk and looks around them. There are walls all around and tremendous buildings made all of shiny metal that block the cloud-blotted sky. The ground is harder than stone and the air leaves a foul taste in the back of her throat. There are loud zoomers, and tall, fair people who are dressed very strangely.

_Find yourself_, Samos had said. She had no idea what that was supposed to mean; old log-for-brains was being just as unhelpful as usual, it seems.

The soldiers come, with their metal suits making a fearful racket (how they expect to sneak up on anything is anyone's guess). Dax bolts, unseen, but Jak's directly in their sights, unable to move. She doesn't know what they want.

Jak supposes that she could fight back, but, well, she's never hit a _person_ before, not really. She's never wanted to hurt anybody. And from the armor, and the face-plates, and the weapons they look like they're keeping at their hips, fighting might cause more problems than it would solve.

She is thankful that Daxter ran though; the ottsel might be panicking now, but she was smart enough to know she might not be safe wherever they seemed to want to take Jak. And if she can find Keiran and Samos, they can come and find her. She isn't going to panic; she's been through worse than this. It'll be all right. Surely it'll be all right.

Nevertheless, Jak feels very alone, surrounded by men in clanking metal.

2

She wakes up on a hard floor in a corner with a large man sitting cross-legged in front of her. The room is all stone, and light comes only from a small eco-bulb swinging from a chain on the high ceiling. There is a rectangular seam in the rock on one wall; Jak supposes that's the door. Outside of their little corner, there are other men, gathered around a rickety table, staring at her with dark eyes.

The man's name is Jan, and he seems to be keeping her safe from them. Jak's clothes are gone, instead a rough white jumpsuit that's much too big covers most of her. Over the cuffs of the suit, her hands and feet are bound with metal. Jan smiles at her kindly, but he's visibly confused when she doesn't speak. Nevertheless, he makes her smile, and he talks to her, about how much she reminds him of his sister, casually slipping words into the conversation that she can't understand. He's the closest thing she has to an ally, and they might even be approaching friends. Jan is evidently one of the "privileged" inmates for agreeing to a program whose name she doesn't catch. All the other inmates are frightened of him, partly of his size (which is tremendous) but mostly intimidated by his advantage.

About half a day later (maybe? Time feels elastic and strange without the sun overhead) the guards shout at them, and everyone is made to stand against the walls. They take Jan by the arms and drag him away.

The other men stare at Jak, and one comes closer. She scoots back into her corner; she has never felt so helpless. He smiles with far too many teeth, and puts a rough hand on her arm.

She does not like to remember what comes next.

3

Afterwards, she sits and stares at the wall.

Afterwards, she can't feel the cold.

Afterwards, the uniform she's drowning in has rips and tears in it.

Afterwards, she feels like a corpse that's still breathing.

Jan gets slammed back into the cell, later, and knows what's happened; but he doesn't know who, and his threats go unheeded by the pack of rabid animals outside their corner of the room. He asks her to point at the one that hurt her, and she only blinks at him. He sits with her, but not too close. She would feel grateful, if she could feel anything.

They take Jan away again, later, and again, and again.

4

Eventually, she has to speak.

She does not want to open her mouth.

Jak knows full well she can talk, just as well as she knows that she just never has; she doesn't want to start now. Her throat sticks, dry from little water. She wants to cry. She hasn't cried since the first time Jan was taken away, but she wants to. She always intended to start talking, but, well, Daxter was always there. There was just no need.

Until now.

Her silence is a childish thing, a soft toy she is unwilling to let go of. She takes a breath in, and lets it out. She hums. Stalls.

Jan looks at her oddly and Jak realizes she's rocking back and forth, back and forth, humming tonelessly to herself. She stops; it makes some of the pain in her back return, but she's been a constant mass of aches and bruises since she learned to climb, she can handle whatever this is. Her hand goes to the small of her back, and it's radiating heat. She wants to cry.

Another breath in, preparing, preparing, she's going to _say _something, what if it doesn't sound right, what if she actually has no idea how to talk. Jak lets the breath whoosh out without a sound being made. She's tapping her foot frantically against the stone. One more breath. "Ah-" It's noise, but not words.

He looks at her with alarm. "What's wrong, little lady?"

He always called her _little lady_.

"Jan?" It sounds very quiet, but he hears her.

"You all right?"

She shakes her head, the length of her ears burning with humiliation.

_Something is happening to me._

_I don't know what's going on, and I don't want to ask for help._

_I miss Daxter._

"I'm-" Jak can't breathe properly, her throat closing around unfamiliar words. "I'm bleeding?" Her voice is breathy and cracking, her hesitancy making the statement a question, but it's there.

He looks her over, worried, and then- seeing no obvious blood- something seems to dawn on him. He colors; she's got no idea what's going on, but it's a comfort to know he's embarrassed as well.

"The woman's curse, then? D'you know how to, er, clean up, and that?"

The bewildered look on her face is answer enough. Thank the Precursors.

"Y'ain't never heard of, erm, the _monthly sickness_?" He's gone as red as Daxter's hair by now.

She shakes her head, eyes wide.

He sighs. "Well, now as I've got you talkin', what's your name, lass?"

She looks at him, with his honest brown eyes and scars on his face, and trusts. "It's Jak."

5

They aren't allowed to look at the guards. They have to face the walls while they stand, and if anyone tries to move they get beaten within an inch of their life.

So it comes as a surprise when one day, instead of dragging her friend off, they take Jak instead. She yelps when they grab her upper arms, but she can't do much with her arms and legs bound. Surrounded by figures in red metal, she looks nervously around at the hallway- flickering lights reaching into hungry darkness, narrow walls closing in. One ducks down and separates the restraints on her legs.

"Try to run and you'll be shot." His voice is very mechanical.

They march her down the hall, turn (two lefts and a right, she notes, tracing out a map in her head) and enter a very strange room. The ceiling is lower than in the cell, the lights more numerous, the floors and counters shining white. Two men in white lab coats with masks are tinkering with something in a corner.

In the center of the room, the only thing not shining, is a smooth metal reclining chair, with straps. Evidently that's where she's going.

"Doctor?" One of the men behind her says it. She fights the urge to turn around; she doesn't like having them where she can't see them.

One of the men in the coats- the doctor, she would assume- turns, with something in his hand. Jak looks once. Looks again. Can't deny what she knows it is.

A syringe- filled with, of all things, Dark Eco. The smell of it, thick and grimy and acidic, is unmistakable. There are three more lined up on the counter in front of him.

These people are clearly _out of their minds_.

The fear of the foul stuff is enough to propel her to try something that occurred to her when she woke up with about two pounds of metal attached to her hands.

She breathes, letting her muscles loosen.

Her hands come up and hit the guard next to her under the chin, and the pressure of her impressive upper body strength behind solid metal takes him down. At the same time she aims a kick at the man on her other side; he hits the floor. Jak jumps in the air- off-balance without her hands to steady her- spin-kicking the three behind her. The one she didn't strike directly with her legs gets her cuffs slammed against the back of his helmet.

Jak takes off down the hallway.

The dark walls stretch for what looks like miles, the flecking paint on the walls looking like blood out of the corners of her eyes. She rushes past, weaving without being able to use her hands, slowed by no exercise and poor nutrition, she keeps running for what feels like hours and doesn't know where she's going except _away_.

She takes the first turn she can, trying to lose the guards she's sure are following by now-

There's someone there.

Moving on instinct, she swings at the shape wildly.

He grabs her hands before she can hit him, depressing a button on the magnetic cuffs. Her hands are separated, but the cuffs are still on, and her momentary shock gives him the opening to twist her arms behind her back. She struggles a little, but he's got her so that if she moves too much she'll dislocate a shoulder. Jak kicks backwards at him, and he lifts her off the ground. She whimpers, her shoulders straining.

"It looks like this one's got a little more spirit than usual." The voice slithering past her ear sets off a bell in her mind, and she knows she's heard him before.

Thudding boots come crashing down the hallway, and Jak realizes that the man behind her has been moving her forward, back to the walkway she ran down. Three of the five guards she escaped from are in front of them, guns drawn.

They see the man behind her and lower their weapons; two of them salute, but one just nods his head sheepishly, wavering a little. She thinks that's probably one of them that she hit in the head.

"Lieutenant?" One of them speaks up, nervous. The man behind her is high-ranking, then. Just her luck.

"Seeing as you incompetents are evidently unable to keep a teenage girl restrained for any length of time, I will escort her back to where she belongs." The guards shifted, disgruntled by the insult. "Which cell is she in?"

"She's in for treatment now, sir. Just cut and run when she saw what she was up against."

His laugh makes a noise as is rushes past her ear; it's mostly air, with a cruel edge to it. "I see. Is the pretty little girl afraid of needles, then?"

Jak wants very much to struggle, but knows she'll end up with a shoulder out of commission. She tries to relax. Tries not to think of the black ooze inside the syringes, purple sparks flaring and dying with a noise like the fizzing in a fire made with green wood-

Her feet stop moving, but the man behind her just pulls her up by the arms- her shoulders protest, but she relaxes them and she's reasonably sure they won't be damaged- and keeps walking. Either he's very strong, or she's become very light.

When they reach the room, her eyes are closed; tears are sneaking out from underneath her lashes against her will. The man holding her picks her up fully, and sets her on the chair; she struggles, but panic is making her clumsy, and there are six of them, one of her. The straps close around her limbs and it's like a death sentence.

Someone's hand slips into hers. Jak's head turns, and sees a blur of bright red hair- _Dax?_- with tattoos surrounding bright eyes in a gold color she hasn't seen in any eyes but animals'. He smiles at her, and his other hand comes up to stroke her hair. She tries to wrench herself away, but there's no room to move. She feels like a bug pinned to a board, jerking as it dies.

"Oh, sweet thing." He sighs. "Are you frightened?"

A relatively calm spot in her mind realizes that he's the man that brought her in, the one that knocked her out and took her here.

The doctor approaches with one of the syringes; she tries to move as much as she can, but there's nowhere to go, the straps hold her fast. The lieutenant squeezes her hand. She shuts her eyes, doesn't want to watch the needle go into her skin. Pain becomes a focus point, the needle slowly inching its way through her flesh, and the last thing she can think before the doctor depresses the plunger is, _Daxter's going to kill me if I end up an Ottsel._

Then the pain hits.

Her insides are burning, and her skin is freezing cold. Every muscle in her body tenses, straining at the straps on the chair. The poison eats at her bloodstream, hits her heart like a punch to the sternum; she feels its steady thudding falter, unsure, and the Dark just keeps going, spreading throughout her. Her teeth itch, and there's a ringing in her ears. She doesn't realize it, but she's holding onto the lieutenant's hand for dear life.

"I've heard this one doesn't speak." The doctor doesn't sound like he's talking about a person. One of the guards laughs.

"Yeah, maybe this time around we won't have to put up with all the noise."

_Sorry to disappoint you,_ comes from some hysterical part of her brain, as she opens her mouth to scream.

6

So her time as a prisoner ended, and her 'privileged' life as a lab rat began.

The 'privilege' of a lonely, stark white cell with bright lights that never turned off.

The 'privilege' of not saying goodbye to Jan.

The 'privilege' of having her white prisoner's jumpsuit taken away, of being left naked and shivering in her cell or in treatment.

The 'privilege' of having her hair shorn off, of throwing up bile laced with eco at all hours of the day and night, of having her cell invaded at any time by doctors and guards who wanted to _blow off steam_.

Her sleeping and waking hours are both filled with nightmares, black shadows dancing for attention at the corners of her vision.

Her name was Jak. Her best friends were Daxter and Keiran. She was from Sandover Village, raised by her uncle Marius and Samos the Sage.

She tries constantly not to forget, digs at unused corners of her memories to find something she can immerse herself in. She once scratched at the walls until her nails broke and bled, and did her best to paint their names on the walls in her blood. By the time she was thrown back in after her next treatment, it had all been washed off, like they had never existed.

She can't remember the feeling of wind in her hair or sunlight on her skin or grass between her toes.

She starts losing time, waking up on the opposite side of the cell where she fell asleep, opening her eyes to find a section of the wall scratched and battered with no memory of doing it even with the evidence sticking to her hands. Thinking back, she hopes that Jan died quickly, instead of going through this hell.

The needles leave marks on her arms that refuse to fade with time.

7

She sees the lieutenant at her treatments often, and it seems like every other time he's being called by a different rank. He progresses rapidly; Lieutenant, Captain, Major, and soon, Colonel. His name is the only constant among the sea of titles; she finds out it's Erol.

She's hasn't spoken her name (or anything) in front of anyone but Jan, whom she hasn't seen since she was moved out of gen-pop. The guards refer to her as _the __bitch_; the doctors call her 86-12-416, her prisoner number.

Erol calls her _sweetheart, _and it gives her the shivers. There's a strange, hungry light in his almost-yellow eyes when he looks at her.

She's half asleep when Erol has her pulled from her cell- every time the guards come in it takes more of them, even as she starves the Dark Eco is imbuing her with an alien strength- and she's dragged somewhere she hasn't been before; she's still recording all the turns, keeping a map of what she's seen of the prison in her head. It's become second nature by now, holding where-she's-been together with where-she's-going, and she knows only the tiniest corner of the place. It would be nearly impossible to find her in here.

But wherever they've taken her, it's expansive. It's not the cramped, claustrophobic little rooms she gets taken to for treatment; it's a full-blown laboratory. Instead of the two doctors attending her injections, there look to be about twenty of the similar-looking men in white coats, each working on something different. She can't smell any eco in the room, except for the background hum of blue eco that powers the lights.

Through the crowd of a dozen guards, she sees a head poke up from behind a screen; an older man with glasses stowed on his balding forehead, in front of neon-blonde hair.

Her hair used to be that color at the ends. It's growing back in all green, and when she tries to run her fingers through it she realizes how long it's been since she's bathed.

The man comes close, parting the guards with a disapproving glare. He's very tall, towering over her, and he has bottle-green eyes that search her over like a research project. His hands come up to touch, and she growls, a low rumbling in her throat.

His hand jerks back.

"Doctor Nusair," Erol speaks up from behind her. She tenses her shoulders, bares her teeth. "What we discussed...?"

"Ah!" Nusair gives her another assessing glance, this one much more curious. "This subject hasn't been affected by the injections?"

"Not to the same extent. She seems to have natural immunity."

Green eyes open wider than she would have thought possible. "Fascinating. It would seem that the Baron's pet project is more prolific than expected."

"Can you, then? Your techniques have been shown to work, haven't they?" Erol's tone is somewhere between challenging and hopeful, like a child daring their parents not to give them a birthday present when he's already seen the box in the closet.

Her stomach sinks. More needles and tests. Then again, what was she expecting?

"I don't know." Nusair chews on the inside of his cheek. "Dark Eco infection might prevent the triggers from taking hold, or it might be doing damage to her brain. The mind is a delicate thing, Colonel. Even trauma can impede the conditioning."

They both pause for a moment. She looks up; Nusair avoids her eyes religiously, looking at everything in the room but her. Erol stares into her for a minute on end, searching for something she's not sure is there anymore. He turns back to the doctor.

"I am merely asking you to try, Mathias."

The doctor's teeth come out to gnaw on his lower lip. He nods, and turns away.

Erol takes her hand firmly and leads her sit in a chair by a desk. The fabric feels strange against her bare skin. He kneels down in front of her, still holding her hand, staring up with eyes that would devour her.

"Sweetheart," he says, making her cringe, "I need you to understand; we're doing this for your own good."

Her stomach falls again. Nothing done to her _for her own good _has ever been good.

"You're going to be uncomfortable. But I just want to keep you safe. Are you frightened?"

She only blinks at him.

Doctor Nusair comes back and stands next to her chair. He gives her water- it's dusty, but heavenly- the guards give her barely enough to stay alive- and talks to her in a soft, even voice. She forgets what he says before she has a chance to think about the words, and her eyelids feel heavier with every passing second, and everything gets fuzzy and colors bleed into each other until she finally blanks out.

She wakes up alone in her cell.

8

They start pumping gas into the room before they take her, and she has very strange dreams.

Dreams of running, running, through a foggy city, focused single-mindedly on a mission objective. Of holding a gun to someone's head as they cry frantically and pulling the trigger without feeling. Of dancing a ballet by herself, in a large white room, to music no-one can hear but her and then Erol is there, following her steps and she doesn't even want to get away when he lifts her. His fingers leave burning red marks on her skin. He holds her hand up to touch a picture - _look, all the__** informa**__tion is there, y__**o**__u only h__**ave**__ to __**look**__, you only have t__**o pu**__t it __**together**__ I k__**no**__w __**how smart**__ you __**a**__re __**sweet**__heart now_** s**_**how**__ m__**e**__. _The images are jerky and frantic, like the little cartoons she and Dax used to draw on pads of paper, making them flicker and move when you flipped the pages.

The back of her neck feels sensitive and strange. She runs her fingers across it, carefully, and there's something there, some little rise under the skin. They've put something on her, in her. She starts clawing at it, half-awake, and when it depresses her eyes roll back into her head and she sleeps. She doesn't remember it happening when she wakes up, but then after it's happened three times her body realizes cause and effect enough not to touch it.

All the guards have stopped coming into her cell. Except Erol.

She's stopped fighting him as much, when he takes her. She doesn't know why, she just can't bring herself to claw at him like she has with the others. He whispers things into her ears, dark things: _you're _mine_, sweetheart, my little whore, no one else touches you, no one else can save you like I can._

_Are you frightened, sweetheart?_ He does frighten her, shakes her to the core, and she can't even hate him with the fear in the way. The animal in her brain tucks its tail between its legs when she sees him.

He takes her to a makeshift shooting range in the back room of a lab, hands her his gun. She stares at him- it would be easy- she has nothing to lose- she could be rid of him-

She turns to face the target. Within a week she can put three bullets through the same hole. Erol smiles at her with possessive pride. _Good girl._

He gives her clothes again, the jumpsuit is too small but it covers her, and it isn't filled with holes. He kisses her, hard, when she's dressed, and she lets him out of some pathetic sense of gratitude. (She hates herself for it, later.)

She finds out why when the next treatment she's dragged to isn't in a lab, but in a chair under a machine; her skin is toughening enough that the needles have problems. The machine pumps the Dark directly into her heart, and she's imbued with enough already that she's beginning to be able to channel the stuff.

It hurts like a _bitch_; besides the burning, searing pain of the eco racing through her system, the skin over her sternum blisters like a bad sunburn, and bruises like she's been kicked by a yakkow. It leaves her prickling like a limb when she falls asleep at the wrong angle, except twice as bad across her entire body. She feels like an anthill is living under her skin.

The rumored Baron comes to observe her once, a large man with machinery set in his face. He stares at her.

She hisses and spits at him, daring him to come closer. He started this; he should see what he's done, what he's created.

Erol does his best to keep the Baron out of her reach as she gets strapped in yet again.

She can see the approval in the bastard's eyes and it spells a death sentence for her.

9

When they throw him into her cell, she doesn't realize what's going on until the door clicks shut and there's a new body in the room.

He's large and smells close to death. Dark Eco is coming off of him in waves, but not in a powerful way; he reeks of it the way that a roast pig smells of its stuffing, like they gutted him and filled him up with the Dark. He's unconscious for now, laying flat in the middle of the cell. There's not much room on either side with him spread out on his stomach, so she puts her shoulder to him to roll him over-

She catches a glimpse of his face. His eyes are swollen shut, grayish ooze sealing the lids, his skin an alarming shade of white. There are cuts all over his face, and what's oozing out is so close to black she can barely tell it's blood. He seems familiar, and she doesn't know why.

He stirs; she shoots up, darting to the other corner of the room. He's wounded, but an animal is always at its most dangerous when it's hurt and cornered. He whines, trying to sit up.

They cohabit for what feels like a long time, keeping to their own sides of the cell; he's sick, nearly dead, but she refuses to be the one to finish him off. She has to remind herself, every time that she snarls at him, that he's a victim of the same program she is; he's been through the same things. They ought to be allies. But the predator in her mind thinks of things in terms of _this-is-mine, that-is-yours, if you touch what-is-mine I'll rip you apart._ She claws her way back to humanity, slowly, but she keeps slipping further and further behind.

It comes to a head when the guards bring water. They leave it in a bowl on the ground, like someone would do for a pet, and it happens to get knocked over to "his" side of the cell.

He lumbers over to it. He's closer, but she's faster, it's all over in a matter of seconds and she has no time to think.

The water bowl is tipped over on its side. He has a hole in his throat. She has thick blood running down her hands. He's gazing up at her, with eyes that are wide and brown and scared and he opens his mouth like a fish gasping on the shore- _Jak?_

She stares at him, frozen in wordless horror, until his mouth slackens and his breath stops gurgling.

Jan's body stays untouched for what feels like ages; they bring water five times, bread twice. She can barely bring herself to move out of her furthest corner to keep herself alive.

Eventually, she crawls over to the door, out of her mind with grief and rage and despair. She begs them through the slat in the bottom of the door, "Please take him away; I can't stay here with him, please, please let me out, I don't care, anything, anything, _please_." All she hears is laughter. She's sobbing and no tears will come and it's the worst feeling in the world.

10

She's started lashing out at the guards when they try to put her in the chair; she takes a half a dozen out this time with animalistic ferocity, but there are nearly twenty close at hand. They don't even sedate her, just lock her in and dial the power up higher than usual. She grunts, writhes, and snarls, but she does not scream. She won't scream for them anymore.

By the time they take her out of the machine, her body is exhausted, but her blood is boiling. How dare they, how _dare_ they, touching her, grabbing her, don't they know she could kill them so easily- Erol is walking up the platform- she twists away, revolted- _don't you touch me; I'll kill you, don't touch me_-

Purple sparks swim in her vision, and the darkness takes her away.

When she comes to, there's a veritable pile of guards behind her, and Erol is backed against the railing, gun up and aimed for her heart. He's staring, his gold eyes horrified and scared; she revels in the feeling of power, _how do you like it, feeling weak?_

"Are you frightened?" She pants, victorious, watching his lips twist into a gruesome sneer. He slaps her, and she hits the ground hard.

Whatever happened left her battered self too tired to fight anymore, so she lets them pick her up off the floor, drag her back with triumph still coursing through her veins. Jan's body is gone by now, but the cell still smells like death, and she still avoids the stains his blood left. They toss her in, the door slamming shut behind them. She's gone very strange; her body is so tired it's shaking, but her mind feels above everything, like she was underwater and now she's broken the surface. There's a disconnect between what her limbs are feeling and what's actually getting to her brain. Rolling on her back, she stares at the ceiling, at the single bulb dangling just out of reach. Turning backflips off the walls is the main way she keeps herself sane in here, but her legs feel like they won't hold her up right now.

She's only been back a little while when the door opens back up, revealing Erol. Commander, now, as she's heard. He still scares her, but it's not as paralyzing, knowing he's afraid of her as well. She smiles- well, smiling isn't the term, she's showing her teeth. It's more of a warning; _I bite._

Erol's face is serious. "You little whore. You haven't any idea what you've just done, do you?"

The 'smile' turns into a grimace. She flips herself over to all fours, ready to fight.

He pulls something small from his pocket. It's a black box, small enough to fit in one hand.

Pointing it at her, he pushes a button. The pain makes her fall to her stomach, knocks the wind out of her. It stings, all over. Like being bitten by insects. He grabs her by the back of the neck, flips her over. His hands ghost over her throat, a sick smile on his face. He holds the box to her skin.

"If you struggle, I will pull this until you pass out. And you might wake up to a few _unpleasant surprises_." He sneers at her; he's never been this cruel, always masked his sadism with 'kindness', tender and reassuring even as he tore her apart. The change is almost refreshing. Almost, aside from the bodily harm he's threatening. She can be nearly certain he's bluffing. She's the only one left of their experiments; too valuable to kill or damage beyond repair.

Then again, she can take a lot of unpleasant damage before she hits "beyond repair".

She grits her teeth, growling at him as he reaches for her clothes.

This has been an awful nightmare since the very first time, but there's a humiliation to it now, that she could be subdued by this bastard. She's familiar with the hold he has on her- there are trigger words that make her docile, or put her to sleep, things that only Erol and Dr. Nusair know- and it never gets any easier, fighting a battle against her own body, being betrayed by her own mind.

Before he finishes, he pushes the button again, harder, and it gets worse with every passing second. She screams- the sound is ear-splitting in the tiny cell- and blacks out.

When she wakes up, she's moving. She can smell things- people, zoomers, rain, marsh gas- and there's air rushing past. She's still surrounded by bars- no surprise there- but she can see the city outside. It's very loud, and far too bright. The light gives her a headache.

She's still groggy from whatever they put in her to keep her out, but she's certain she hears someone shouting.

A familiar voice.

She blinks, slowly, not realizing at first. Not until they're unloading her, carrying her back indoors, does she put the pieces together.

That was Daxter's voice.

Jak smiles.

* * *

** So begins my genderbend comprehensive. This is going to be a labor of love; likely, no one will review it, but I need to get it out. Also I need to actually finish something for once in my life. Here's to hoping.**

**The little vignette-numbers? I do one every night. I'm up to twenty now, and when I get to thirty, I'll publish 10-20 (I need time to round up a beta or two and do my own editing). **

**Many thanks to letmefallasleep and Rainfelt (Phoe-chan), who both beta'd this chapter.**

**I was going to have Erol's ranking be in the US Army system, since we don't actually know how the KG ranks progress, but it looked really strange. This is in the US police system of rankings, with Inspector replaced by Commander and made the highest rank.**

**86-12-416, Jak's prisoner number, is a combination of two prisoners from the Stanford Prison Experiment; Prisoner 8612 staged a rebellion, barricading himself and two other "prisoners" inside their cell with a bed. Prisoner 416, who took 8612's place when he left, went on a hunger strike. (Interestingly, 416 is also the number of the session [from the R. Tam Sessions] in which River kills her psychologist.)**

**Mathias was the name of the doctor who was in charge of conditioning River Tam in the movie Serenity; "Nusair" is an Arabic name meaning "bird of prey".**

**Many thanks for reading,**

**S.S.o.D.**


	2. Chapter 2

**This has not been beta'd yet (_Jak fandom where did you goooo)_ and will be prone to frequent edits; same with the first chapter. If you read the first chapter already, I would suggest going over it again; I've changed or added a few things.**

* * *

"But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?" — Gandalf on Eowyn, The Lord of the Rings

11

It's been a long time since she was taken in the transport (she doesn't know why she was being moved, possibly something to do with Nusair; she'd smelled him on her clothes when she woke up) and she's starting to think that Daxter's voice was a hallucination.

Jak has given this extensive thought before; the likelihood of a two-foot-tall mustelid surviving, on her own, for however long she'd been stuck here, seems hard to believe. (She hadn't a clue exactly how long it was, but her hair had grown back in, down to her shoulders; she knew, after that disastrous first time, that her bleeding came on the moon's cycle, but it came twice more, then stopped, for an unknown reason.)

Dax was hardy, but she could be cleverer than the Precursors themselves and she'd still look like an animal, not a person. Jak shudders to think of it, but there was a good chance that, had she been caught by someone with the right interests, Daxter could have been caged and experimented on, too.

They've been best friends since they were tiny, and when Dax got catapulted out of that Dark Eco vat three feet shorter it changed both of their lives... surprisingly little. But Jak has felt at least a little guilty protectiveness anyways. Daxter could be hurt so easily- she'd never been wonderfully competent, tripping over her own feet, but at least if a Lurker came straight for her she could hit it with a branch, or something. But after she became an Ottsel, they both knew she would always need her big blonde best friend to protect her. Without Jak's shoulder to stand on, there were so many things that could go wrong.

That, by now, probably _had_.

Her conviction that her best friend is dead or near to is most of the reason Jak is ready to die. She's made her peace, she's done. Nothing to care about anymore. A flame of hope is a fragile thing, and once snuffed, the darkness seems all the more suffocating.

Her body won't cooperate, though, determined to survive; keeps plodding on even when all she wants is peace.

She's been reduced to taunting the guards or Erol, trying to anger them enough to hit her, but they don't react; Erol looks at the cameras often, glancing out of the corners of his eyes. He still looks at her with want, but he hasn't touched her in what feels like a long time.

The project is on its last legs; she's either going to be sent into the field on a suicide mission, or summarily executed. Either way, she's done for, but the decision is on a knife's edge, and no one involved wants to risk the Baron's wrath with another failure. The doctors are edgy, slowly decreasing in number.

The night before the Baron's final trial, the little green light in the corner of the cell blinks out. The camera has turned off.

Erol is in the room within seconds, his eyes on fire and his smile very sharp.

12

They have evidently hit the highest level the machine can go to, and she's still conscious this time. Twitching, yes, unable to move of her own accord, yes, but conscious. She can hear what's going on above her; it's blurry-sounding, and her brain is struggling to keep up, but she knows the gist of it.

The Baron wants her dead or useful; Erol wants her alive, but can't argue outright because the Baron is mad as a box of frogs. They're playing the same tug-of-war they have for months, the one where both sides lose.

Her hair is grabbed, her head shaken; if she could move, she'd bite their hand off. Bastards, the both of them. There's not much point in staying awake, really. Erol wants to _keep_ her, has promised her countless times that whatever Praxis decides, she'll end up as Erol's property. He's either going to connive his way into being her field handler, or fake her execution and squirrel her away, somewhere dark and hopeless. She's heard it all before. The chair is cold against her back and she wants to die.

Sliding into half-pleasant grayness, Jak doesn't realize she's been left alone. No guards. No doctors.

One by one, the camera lights in the walls go dark.

13

A solid weight lands on her chest; she coughs. She wants to go back to sleep; her eyes flutter and roll. Nothing matters. She's done. There's a sharp impact on her diaphragm that knocks the air from her lungs.

_"...An' it turns out you been in one a' the most heavily guarded places in the city? I risked my tail for you, girl, and I don't even get a thank-you? Jak, wake up! I found you, it's me! Say something- please, for once!"_

She'll say something all right. Bolts upright- as far upright as the chair will let her, at least- bares her teeth, and snarls. She doesn't care what she says- _"I'm going to _kill_ those motherfuckers"_ comes to mind- but the small furry thing flies off her chest.

The aggression she's suddenly forced through her system turns out to have been too much right after a treatment, and Jak fades as she lets her monster take over.

It is _very_ aware of what It's doing. There's something small in front of It, and It hasn't eaten in a long while.

It advances slowly, savouring the fear on the little one's face- Its claws ready for skinning the beast-

And stops.

There's a _smell_. A miniscule impulse making the lizard-brain light up with sense-memory. A smell of comfort, of companionship. The closest thing Its mind can come to understanding is _mate?_ but even that's not quite it, the little thing is just... There. Safe, home, nothing to kill, content. The memories feel _right_.

It, reluctantly, fades.

She comes back to herself disoriented, the world spinning. The broken remnants of the restraints are on the floor, and she's loose. Nothing makes sense, it feels like her entire idea of the place she's been stuck in has been toppled. Like her feet have been kicked out from underneath her. She's torn between hysterical laughter and collapsing in tears; Daxter's alive, she's okay, her best friend came to rescue her.

_Two years_, she'd said.

Was that all?

14

Daxter is more resourceful than Jak gave her credit for; she brought clothes. Jak tries not to think of how sick Dax looks when she glances at the prison jumpsuit- obviously she brought them because of how much easier it will be to escape if she doesn't look like she's supposed to be in a cell. She shucks the uniform without a care in the world (body shyness having been beaten out of her somewhere in the stretch of time she spent denied clothes by the doctors) and dons the garments that Dax had... procured.

The shirt and pants fit perfectly, the ring and its harness feel as familiar as anything's felt since she got here. Her goggles are her own; they smell like Sandover, like the ocean and the trees. She can only wonder at how Dax found them. The shirt's even bright blue; leave it to Daxter to remember her favorite color even in dire situations.

Jak pretends that wearing normal clothes doesn't feel strange at all. She sets off at a run.

15

By now she knows the halls she's traveled by heart, and the ones she hasn't by smell. Daxter guides her sometimes, and others she just instinctively turns, drawn by the smell of moving air. Climbing is easy, muscles sore but eager for movement, and fighting is downright _joyful._

The guards are in an uproar. An alert has gone out, and they're trickling in, but she can smell the panic on them. They know exactly how dangerous she is. She knocks them down as they come near, and one by one, they stay down. Bullets- she senses them around her, but she moves fast and none of them can aim. Luck is not on the side of the Guard.

A few necks are snapped in the chaos. Daxter flinches at the sound of it, and it will give Jak pause, later, when she thinks of how much she's changed in two years.

But for now, finding her freedom is all that matters. She's almost high with it; no one tells her where to go, or what to do, or how to fight. She just _does,_ acts without an order or a plan. It's wonderful. She can get out; and she'll take on the world if she has to, but she _will_ get her revenge.

16

Fresh air is wonderful.

Outdoors is _blinding._

Her eyes stinging, she stands in the doorway for a moment, forgetting how much danger she is in while she marvels at how _open_ everything is. The sky is cloudy, but huge. The air, on second thought, is not that fresh, but there's wind, and space, and sky, clouds, light that doesn't come from a degenerate, flickering eco-bulb.

Jak steps off into the shadows, trying to recover herself. Rubs at her eyes. She can smell people- lots of them- and grimy water, and oil. Thousands of crossing trails. It's so visceral that it feels like a whole new sense; she tries to ignore it until it's needed.

Pushing herself off the wall, she tries to move with purpose. No one makes eye contact with her. Daxter chatters in her ear, the joking easy to treat as soothing background noise. She holds her head up high, barely noticing the scowl on her face. There isn't much to see on the ground. Walls, streets, signs. A few passers-by; an old man, with a child and a dog. How sweet.

She looks up, wondering at the sheer number of zoomers in the sky; Keiran would be fascinated. They spew a ghastly-smelling smoke into the surrounding air, a cloud of it descending onto the street.

The man grabs at her sleeve, and she turns on him; without giving him a chance to react, she backs him up, being as intimidating as possible.

"You look smart." She says, coolly, "Tell me where I am, and I won't break your neck." He looks alarmed, but not outright frightened.

Daxter jumps off her shoulder, making smart remarks to the toddler. She tunes her friend out.

The old man seems to have a dark sense of humor, sarcasm evident in his "praise" of the Baron. Luckily; if his irony wasn't as obvious she might have flown into a rage. She doesn't need to lose control right now.

Or maybe she does; guards are closing in. They've found her. She snarls; they won't take her, not without the fight of their lives.

"Protect us, and I can introduce you to someone who can help!" The old man ushers the little girl close to him, getting behind Jak. Dax jumps back on her shoulder, sensing trouble.

She smiles. Now _that_, she can do.

17

This time, the transformation is painful.

She could _feel_ her nails growing, sharpening into claws; her teeth becoming angular and serrated; there was even a filmy, disgusting feeling that slid over her eyes as they turned pitch black. Never before had she been conscious during that, It always having seized control of her mind before anything else. She shudders. Her arms go around her middle; she feels nauseous.

Daxter, oblivious, says, "Jak! How did you do that? That was _so cool!"_, and if Jak didn't feel like her arms being tucked around her stomach was the only thing keeping her upright, she'd smack that little wise-ass.

But it's _Daxter_, so she just gives her friend a sidelong glance as she manages to grind out, "I don't know what they did to me, but it wasn't good. Something in me is changing." The ottsel glances over her, sensing her distress; she seems to realize that this isn't a joke, it isn't a neat new trick. She scampers back up to the shoulder-plate, her closeness reassuring and her scent helping to keep the monster at bay.

"Thank you for your help." Jak pulls herself out of her thoughts, turning to face wizened old Kor and the little girl next to him. "I cannot begin to explain the service you have done; this child is incredibly important." The toddler gives Jak a shy smile, waving clumsily.

"Hey, old guy, you gonna skimp on us? We were promised information, now cough it up!" Daxter, of course, spoke Jak's mind without a second's pause. Having her best friend back is a blessing.

"All right, voices down!" Kor speaks in a raspy whisper; following his lead, the green-haired girl puts a finger to her lips in a _shush!_ motion. "There is a rebel movement called the Underground; its leader is called the Shadow, and he could use someone like you. In the Slums, there is a dead-end alley near the city wall. Ask for Torn; he can help."

He rushes off. The child claps her hands to catch the dog's attention, and they follow at a run.

Jak turns around, looking at the fast-moving passers-by. They haven't even noticed anything.

"So... Where're we going?"

18

Precursors bless Daxter's amazing sense of direction.

She directs them around the city, and Jak gets them there. She sticks to the shadows, freezing on reflex whenever the Guard passes; Dax tells her to _get a move on_, and it helps her concentrate on where she is. The city is lit up for the night, the lights of the buildings turning the cloud-cover a dark blue, but the brightness is unfamiliar to one used to either torches or starlight. Jak constantly feels like someone is watching her, but they aren't; no one so much as glances at them.

Eventually they find the alleyway Kor spoke of, by stumbling in mostly on accident. The blonde woman approaches rapidly with an intimidating glare, and a man backs her up; he's dressed in a modified Guard uniform, with Guard command tattoos, but something in his demeanor doesn't put Jak on _immediate_ defensive, not like the others do.

Knocked a little off balance- _he's too close, back up backupbackup don't let him touch you-_ Jak regains her footing, looking him straight in the eyes when she says she's looking for the Shadow.

So this is Torn.

What an asshole.

She's supposed to take down some stupid flag for entry into their little treehouse club. Because evidently the Underground movement can afford to be choosy. The knife in his hand doesn't frighten her, the twirling he does is clearly an act; he's trying to put her off, trying to scare her into going home.

But home is worlds away.

Ruined Tower it is, then.

19

Out in the ruins, the air is buzzing. In the city, it feels flat and lifeless, but out here it smells of eco-pollution and mutated... _creatures_. The whole atmosphere is defensive and wild, whispers sliding through empty spaces- _get out, out, ours, not yours, don't touch, will bite ._ But it's nice to feel dirt under her boots, something with give, something organic. As organic as things get, in Haven.

The stones of the old tower are rotting, dust falling like snow everywhere they turn. Daxter jumps when they get pelted with sand from above, wondering aloud if there's something big tramping around above them.

Jak is more at home than she's been in ages. Climbing old rock, scaling cliffsides, avoiding monsters- these were things she grew up with. No matter where they happen, she's an adventurer born and raised. Her eyes light up at the prospect of something large and mean to fight, and while Dax crouches lower onto her shoulder with every stone that comes undone beneath her feet, Jak feels like laughing. She breathes deep, runs fast, jumps high. She's unstoppable, in this moment.

They reach the banner, towards the top; it's red, ripped to shreds by the wind, and the design on it is all too familiar. Jak tears the pole out of the ground with as much vehemence as she can muster.

Unfortunately, she seems to have been a little enthusiastic with her efforts. The dislodging of the pole is as much excuse as the tower needs to finally give up on holding itself in the sky, and the floor drops from underneath them.

Jak rolls, curls around the flag, holding herself very still. There was an awning, she remembered it- yes, underneath the very spot they'd fallen from. She's bounced back into the air, and angles herself for a cable. By some miracle, Daxter grabs a hold of her again, screaming all the while.

Holding tight to the flagpole, she balances carefully- too much either way and she'll fall, snap her neck, game over- and as she reaches the cord's tether, she jumps, turning a flip in midair.

With a ten-point landing, she plants herself back in the sandy dirt- right in front of a very impressed Torn. He looks the both of them over with wide eyes, and nods in approval.

"How long have you been here?" Jak surprises herself with the harshness of her voice. She wasn't expecting him to be there, watching, didn't know he was looking at her, she didn't realize, didn't check her surroundings- she swallows down a sudden nausea.

Torn takes a long look at her, measuring her up and down. He doesn't regard her like Erol did, all want and wandering eyes; just clinical, is she useful, can she fight. It's easier to think of it that way. The memories surge at her, battering at her defenses, and she locks down tight.

"Long enough to see you're pretty impressive. You gotta problem?"

"Yeah." She's snapping, almost growling, because anger will get him to leave her alone. "I don't appreciate being stared at."

His expression changes. Jak realizes, too late, that she's given herself away. He's looking at _her_ now, not as a soldier, but as a... a _child_. He knows she's been hurt; he may not know how, but he knows she has been. There is some measure of compassion to the look he's giving her, but Jak refuses to let herself see it. She won't be that pitiful girl he takes in because he feels bad for her. He doesn't owe her anything, he doesn't know anything about her.

He nods at her. He turns to go, turns back. Rubs the bridge of his nose like he's getting a migrane. "Kid- you got a place to stay?"

"No." It isn't anything but a statement of fact. Show no emotion.

"Underground barracks back at HQ are open to you, then. Find a bunk, shower off, don't let anybody push you around. Stay out of my way. You'll be fine."

"I will be."

She won't allow herself to believe anything else. She can survive.

20

They part ways with Torn without a word, just run off into the city and get lost in the crowds that are coming out as the sun rises. Daxter keeps a running commentary on the people they pass, and instead of tuning her out, Jak listens; the ottsel gets a few precious smiles out of her best friend, even.

She's not hungry, she's not tired, she just... is. Her goal is revenge against the Baron (and Erol, but she feels like if she says his name out loud he'll appear, like the faery legends that the older boys in the village used to scare them with) but there's no way to get to him right now; the best bet she has is the Underground.

And she can't face that at the moment.

She exposed herself, unwittingly. She won't let that happen again.

They spend a few hours together, Jak shaking off the humiliation of being seen as damaged, Daxter trying to re-learn her best friend. They function as a unit again, Daxter interspersing her humorous monologues with directions and advice. Jak starts eyeing the zoomers speculatively, wondering if she could drive one without it blowing up underneath her.

(Or having an unfortunate attack of sentimentality; the A-Grav was Keiran's heart and soul, but Jak had always been the driver, and the shaky little zoomer had almost been a friend to her, a very faithful mount. She didn't know if she could stomach replacing it with one of these sleek, heartless things.)

The sun rises in the sky, slowly, the bright light glinting off metal buildings as they explore the city. Faded colors come out on displays, people setting up roadside stands or opening their houses to the rare sunlight.

Eventually, childish pride gives way, and under the slanting light of the late morning sun they trudge back to the Underground to see how they can be useful.

* * *

**.**

**Chapter two done. I have three done as well, I just need to clean it up (a lot). **

**I feel as if I should justify Torn's characterization here; he's not as openly hostile to girl!Jak as he is to canon Jak, mostly because, well, he gets a lot of arrogant, fucked up teenage boys looking for a fight, whereas if the Underground gets young female applicants, it's mostly because they've got something to escape from at home. He has enough experience with each that he uses different approaches- he has probably gotten too close too fast to some poor girl, and gotten a punch to the nose for it. He'll get closer to his canon attitudes as she survives and becomes his favourite thing to throw at a problem.**

**Also, just as a side note on something I couldn't fit into the story; Ashelin ends up avidly convinced that Torn is attracted to girl!Jak, but he resolutely isn't. She's_ all straight lines_, dammit, and she looks like Tess when she was about twelve. He mostly wants to smack her upside the head and give her a stiff drink; he sees her as just another soldier. ****Ashelin will never believe him about this.**

**All my love to long ago,**

**S.S.o.D.**


	3. Chapter 3

"True strength is keeping everything together when everyone expects you to fall apart." - Unknown

21

Jak is immediately nervous inside. The lights are too bright, the air isn't moving, and on top of that, she doesn't want to speak with Torn if she can help it. If she sees that _understanding_ look on his face again, her pride will walk her straight back out the door and she'll lose her best chance at revenge.

The Underground headquarters aren't bad, though. Most of the light comes from a trash-can fire against the back wall, the furnace in the corner (which also lets off a wonderful amount of heat) and the lamp over Torn's map table. Along the walls are propaganda posters with notes scribbled on them, some of them official, some of them rude. Still, it smells like a barracks, like rowdy soldiers

(_you gonna go visit the Bitch? Nah, too skinny- ain't my type. You go ahead, though, screams'll be pretty entertaining_)

even with the soothing overlay of wood-smoke.

There's a good chance that Jak's nervousness is the exact reason Daxter starts screwing around; she'd probably known that pulling a random lever was the opposite of a good idea, but did it anyways, since it smoothed a few of the anxious lines on her friend's forehead. A faceful of mud was the price to pay. Jak glanced at her friend, and sniffed, raising an eyebrow. That mud was foul, and they would both be smelling it for hours.

Torn, for his part, stays completely professional. It's clear that he sees dozens of kids like her on a pretty regular basis, fed up with oppression, a boy trying to work off his pointless teenage anger or a girl trying to escape some kind of demon at home. She's just one in a crowd to him, and feels better for it.

"The Baron's cut off the water to an entire section of the city."

How unsurprisingly cruel. Her scowl deepens.

"Which shouldn't surprise me. I've seen his evil before- when I was in the Krimson Guard."

Jak twitches.

"You were in the Guard?"

He stares at her, incredulous. "Said that."

"_When_?"

If he was anywhere near where they kept her- there were a lot of them- _o please no, don't let him have been there-_

"Years ago. Before your time." He turns away, continues debriefing her.

Jak relaxes, fractionally.

22

The sight of a palm tree hits her in the gut with terrible homesickness.

Unfortunately, between an attack of homesickness, and an attack by Metal Heads, the Metal Heads require more attention if you intend to see tomorrow.

They're not terribly large, looking something like a cross between a dog and a Lightning Mole, but she supposes from all she's heard that there must be different breeds out there. They move fluidly; one gets a lucky bite in on her leg, and gets its head smashed in for its troubles.

The other backs up, snarling, waiting for her to make the first move. Unconcerned, Jak moves towards the pipes nearby, figuring that's where she needs to go.

The Metal Head leaps at her, and is rewarded with a boot to the jaw. It stumbles backwards, and Jak smacks the flat of her hand down against its skull, stunning it. While it's still dazed, she snaps its neck. She climbs up, looking for something she can use to turn the water back on.

The Pumping Station seems like a mockery of the beaches back home, with dirty sand, awful water (drinkable, though, if you don't mind the taste of algae- she hadn't had water for entirely too long), sick plants, and half-dead palm trees, bowing to the hissing wind. Her heart feels squeezed; she misses solid colors, clean air, good people. She misses home.

Either Daxter feels the same way, or she can read Jak's mind (which hasn't seemed so unlikely at times), because the second an opportunity is available, she starts goofing off. They make their way to a cluster of pipes, where the lever to turn the water back on rests. Daxter hops off Jak's shoulder.

The ottsel strains at the valve for a while, grunting theatrically. Fine, then; if she wants to look like a moron, Jak can help with that.

She figured the valve would turn suddenly, possibly knocking Dax on her ass. They'd laugh, it'd be fine.

She was not expecting the valve to whip around at the same time a hatch opened above them with a violent sucking sound, or for Daxter to be thrown up into the air, into the pipe system. Jak can hear her friend's frantic screaming echoing inside the metal, but if she's making noise at least she's still alive. She follows the sound, trying to trace it through one area or another, see where Dax is heading, but it's too difficult to tell which one she's in.

Daxter hits the nozzle, and Jak rushes over; the sound of her friend whimpering her name, quietly, won't be leaving her alone for weeks. She turns the second knob with all of her strength.

Dax gets squeezed out like she's made of rubber, landing flat on the dusty ground and staying there, silent, for a minute.

Jak starts to say something, her heart thumping wildly in her chest, and Daxter lifts a single finger in the air.

"Say. Nothing."

She sits up, shakes herself all over, looks down at her body like the first time she'd ever seen it (with less screaming involved) and blinks rapidly. She doesn't appear to be in pain; the worst she looks is confused, ears twitching as she flexes her arms and legs. She scampers up Jak's sleeve, settling herself on the shoulder-pad and trying to get her fur to lay down in the right direction.

Jak opens her mouth to speak, and Daxter interrupts once again.

"We are _not_ going to talk about that."

She shrugs, glancing at her friend with worried eyes. But she supposes that if Dax is willing to put up with her new issues, she can let the ottsel's weirdness pass without comment from time to time.

23

They make their way back into the water slums, the docks creaking beneath their feet. Daxter is silent, eerily so; with what just happened, it would seem like she would be hurt. But she isn't, and so she sits quietly on Jak's shoulder, puzzled.

Jak feels the noise before she hears it.

The familiar buzzing along the ground that means an oracle is nearby, singing its low, humming song until someone speaks to it and it gets a chance to spout off an absurdly obscure prophecy, or demand an absurd number of Precursor orbs for a power cell. Although that last bit may not hold true here; evidently Haven runs purely on eco-lines, no power cells needed.

But still, she feels the tug of it in her bones, something familiar reaching out to her. They get about halfway there before Daxter sits up and realizes where they're going.

"Aw, no, not one of them big creepy Precursor piles of crap! I have spent enough of my time being told about the future in the most unclear language imaginable, thank you very much!_ One of you has the light within._ Gee, _thanks_, buddy, it's not like we needed to know anything about this giant ring that could catapult us Precursors-know-where! We don't need anything it's got, why're we going?"

Jak shrugs, walking through the doorway. The hum is louder than ever, incredibly familiar.

The hut is small, with a frayed rug in the middle of the room, the oracle itself surrounded by candles. Jak remembers how, if someone in the village was close to death, she would be asked to place a candle with the sick person's hair tied around the wick by the Oracle. It was supposed to help the Precursors know to whom the spirit coming to greet them belonged. There are so many candles, that to think each represents someone who is dead or dying is a somber thought.

The Oracle, in its low, rolling voice, confirms her suspicions; the Dark Eco in her system is slowly killing her. She'll have to work fast if she wants the Baron to die before she does.

But if she can kill enough Metal Heads, the oracle can help her learn to control It. She's heard of sages receiving tutelage from the Oracles themselves- according to rumor, the Blue Sage was raised by one, although this was generally held to be a joke- but had never considered it happening to her.

Never considered that it might be the only way to prolong her life, either. The tip of Daxter's tail is twitching, which means she's thinking; that makes two of them.

They step out into the Water Slums and start walking back to base.

24

Jak decides very quickly that walking is inconvenient.

She also notices several zoomers parked at the docks. There are KG all around, but they don't look at her, and they don't seem to care what the citizens do as long as they don't bother the Guard. So she hops on.

It's obviously a piece of crap that's been sitting in the same spot for a while; all the paint is chipping off, water damage on the undercarriage, the grips are half-rotted.

She takes it anyways.

Being up in the air again is very strange; it's cold and dry where Sandover was warm and humid, and this hunk of junk she's riding is not as well constructed as Keiran's little A-Grav, even if it is more advanced. Still, she can turn and accelerate without blowing up (although there is a heat rise she can feel in the engine) and so she sets to learning the city from above.

She adapts quickly to the controls, even if they are terrible; this is how much she needs to lean into a turn, this much acceleration is too much, this speed is when the engine gets dangerously close to overheating. Jak circles around over the Water Slums for a while, getting a feel for the new zoomer while Daxter talks to her, or just sits, enjoying the wind.

Problems arise when they leave the Water Slums for the city proper, and immediately hit a Guard vehicle.

Daxter yelps, screeching several obscene curses, and Jak grits her teeth. They surge forward, hopefully before the KG in the cruiser sees them, and speed off. Jak takes the little zoomer up as high as it will go, leveling with the third-story windows and sputtering as it does its best to rise. All the guards in the area have turned their attention to the blonde girl on the shitty zoomer. (She actually hears them referring to her as this over their radios, with her newly sensitive hearing.) She hits the throttle.

They make it a good four blocks before the zoomer starts to overheat.

This time it's Jak that swears. She does a nose-dive towards the street (causing several citizens to run for cover) and slows down as much as she dares before she rolls off. It continues on its path, hitting a wall with a crunch and a small grease fire.

She's got bigger problems. About ten guards are closing in, she's far away from anywhere in the city she knows well, and she's being backed into an alleyway. Things look bleak; she casts about for anything she could use as a weapon, comes up with nothing; the alley is dark and damp, nothing around but puddles and trash. Takes a deep breath. If she's going to go down, she _will_ go down fighting. She'll die before she lets them take her again.

"Jak?" Daxter sounds rightly nervous. "Please tell me you can do that thing again?"

She takes a deep breath. That's an idea.

A stupid idea, but an idea.

The Guards are radioing in for orders; one of them, at least, will figure out who (_what_) she is.

But then, what does it matter if it keeps her alive, even for a little while longer?

Jak closes her eyes and thinks of the Dark inside her body, the heavy, roiling blackness in her veins, imagines pulling it up and over like a hood. The air in her lungs is stale with the scent of a huge population; the wind is whistling over the buildings around; the guards' uniforms are making loud noises as they move. Her fingertips tingle. It's not working.

And then, with an incredible rush, it is. Her nails force themselves outwards, leaving pain lancing through her hands, and her teeth lengthen into fangs. Black slides over her eyes, feeling like something slimy crawling into (or perhaps out of) her skull.

_It_ wakes up.

Short work is made of the guards, fighting becoming a game; It draws them like flies to a corpse, and they are cut down as they swarm. Hard, sharp claws cut through KG armor easily, and It relishes in the slick blood dripping down her claws, the flesh tearing under her teeth.

Daxter is petrified. She sits on her friend's shoulder, watching the fight become a massacre, frightened past the point of speech. Only when It has taken out all the guards that followed them into the alley, and moves for the street, does Daxter work up the courage to act.

"Hey- hey girlie, I know you got issues with men in uniform, but that's no reason to take it out on the civvies, huh? How about we just go... Back here..." She tugs on her friend's long, pale grey ear, trying to make It turn back around. If she can just get Jak to the back of the alley, where they won't be seen...

It seems to listen, head turned towards her left shoulder. It only blinks at Daxter, so she jumps down, walking backwards, coaxing Jak towards one of the corners. It makes a playful noise, evidently thinking of this as a game, and bounds around her, cutting her off with an open smile filled with bloodied fangs. Daxter freezes, then relaxes herself. The Dark thing is much faster than she is; this is as far as she's getting from the street. She'll just have to pray that no one sees.

She darts forward, clambering onto the shoulder-pad, and brushes the white-grey hair aside. Full black eyes stare at her, trusting, making her feel like a traitor.

"Sorry, Jak."

Daxter bites her friend on the back of the neck- right where Nusair had installed the "_panic button_", a small sac underneath the skin filled with a nano-regenerating sedative. Her sharp teeth clamp down on false-flesh plastic, but they don't break it, and the button depresses, sending heavy tranquilizers through her friend's bloodstream.

It yelps, reaching for the furball on her shoulder and throwing it off (her claws very nearly missed slicing her friend's belly open) backing up to the wall and still growling. It walks forward, approaching Daxter, still on the ground. Black eyes widen, sharp teeth revealed by It's gasp of surprise.

Jak's body sways for a moment, goes to her knees, and then she falls flat. Laying curled towards her stomach in the dirty alley, her skin slowly fades back to its normal color.

Daxter moves closer, curling up on her best friend's upper back, and tries not to give in to her ottsel brain's desire to groom her unconscious "mate".

25

Jak wakes up slowly, feeling Daxter's warmth on her neck. The cold is seeping into her bones, but Dax's small, furry body can keep her warm for ages. Stone underneath her, soft yellow light coming in from above- they must be in the swamp, hiding away from the rain...

She opens her eyes, and the memory of the swamp disappears, replaced by Haven, in the evening once more. Her head hurts, the ground underneath her is filthy, and Daxter...

Daxter knocked her out. That thing on her neck- that was what had knocked her out.

Jak shakes her head. She _couldn't_ have, that would mean...

That would mean she knew. Knew about the things Nusair had done to her, knew as much or more about it than Jak herself.

Shaking her head, she sits up, nearly dislodging the dozing ottsel flopped between her neck and shoulder. Dax yelps, holding on with dulled claws. "Watch it!"

The puddles on the ground splash quietly as she lifts herself off the ground. She can't look at her friend, unsure if she's angry or guilty, afraid or ashamed. There's an ache in her gut that has nothing to do with how long it's been since she's eaten and her ears are ringing from clenching her teeth too hard.

Running, she leaves the alleyway behind.

26

They make it back to HQ without exchanging a word. Daxter has clearly realized there's something wrong and, not wanting to press the issue further, has said nothing to Jak. For her part, the former hero is barely staying calm. She doesn't steal any more zoomers, even though she badly wants to hit something. Probably _because_ she badly wants to hit something. Getting into a vehicle now would end in several explosions.

Going indoors is still a trial, but Jak is finding it easier to ignore the nerves the second time. (She flinches when the fire in the corner starts flickering. Daxter notices, but no one else does.)

Torn is marking up a map of the city when she stops in front the table.

"Water's back on. Good work."

She nods, not particularly concerned about his approval.

Several moments of silence go by before he tries to suggest another mission to her. She interrupts him in a flat voice.

"It can wait half an hour. I need a wash."

He looks her over, greasy hair, dried blood flaking off her hands, her clothes covered in algae and dried mud. He sighs.

"Out that door, take a right, fourth door to your left. Half an hour."

She leaves without acknowledging him.

27

The universe has mercy on Jak for the first time in two years, and leaves the locker room blissfully empty.

The walls are a faded, flaking beige, but the color is dark and rich enough that it doesn't remind her of the sterile-white or steel-grey of the fortress. Lockers line two walls, with rows in between separating out the room. She sits down on one of the worn benches between the lockers, and stares at the cheap plastic curtains separating the showers from the rest of the room. Light comes, not from unshielded bulbs hanging from the ceiling, but from lamps on the floor, five in total, all with their cords braided painstakingly into the wires that poke out of the walls. Daxter hops off her shoulder, inspecting the jury-rigged light source.

Jak sits for a moment, blinking in the low light. It feels good to have her weight off her feet. Sighing, stretching, she unbuckles the ring holding her knapsack to her back, and lifts the hem of her shirt over her head, shaking the goggles and scarf off with it.

Movement catches her eye, and she whips around, startled. She finds herself staring into a full-length mirror on the opposite wall.

She sees a small, pale figure that looks like it might have been human, once, but has been shattered and pasted crudely back together. She sees ribs sticking out of her skin, breasts nonexistent. Her waist is curved, barely, and her hips bow outward, but the are none of the curves of a healthy young woman; that her ears have lengthened is the only physical sign that she is older than fourteen. Between her lacking breasts is a large purple marking (still sore), half bruise and half stain, where the Dark Eco was forced through her by that damned chair.

Her eyes are huge, her face baby-round, her mouth bright and wet. It's a vicious parody of attractiveness; there are deep black circles under her baby-blue eyes, her cheeks are swollen from vomiting, her mouth pink with raw flesh where she's worried the skin off with her teeth. Her blonde hair- she used to catch herself in a looking-glass and pride herself on it, her crowning glory, thick and wild and standing stubbornly upright- her hair is a solid mass, held in one place by blood, grease, sweat, other things she doesn't care to think of. There are scars and bruises up and down her torso, her arms, her neck.

Jak reaches an arm around her shoulders, touching the skin over her right shoulder-blade. She can't feel the tattoo, but she knows it's there, remembers being held down while they branded her; **86-12-416**, like that's all she is, all she'll ever be. She clamps her eyes shut and takes a deep breath.

"Dax?"

The ottsel scurries over, a caricature of innocence on her furry little face. Jak would be the only one who could catch the guilt in her expression.

"Whaddaya want?"

"How did you know?"

Jak turns away from the mirror, tugging her boots and leggings off. She can't see her friend's face, but she knows what Daxter is avoiding. Jak wishes she could ignore it too. But if left alone, this would infect, scab over, and be picked at constantly; a blemish on the face of their friendship. She won't let that happen. Daxter is all she has.

"How did you know how to knock me out?"

Still not looking at her friend, she makes her way to the showers. Behind the plastic curtain, the dim blue light casts a caricature of moonlight against smooth tile. There's a wreck of a plastic chair in the corner, wobbly but stable enough for Daxter to sit on. Jak drags it over by the shower-head with the least amount of rust on it.

The knob to turn the water on isn't difficult. The temperature gauge _is_. Jak gets slammed in the face with icy water right off the bat, and ducks out of the spray with a curse. By the time she wipes the water out her eyes, the water is all the way to "taking a bath in the Lava Tube" hot, and she stays out of its way while she tries to get a good grip on the valve. She turns it all the way around to the right, and the water flow stops. Turning it back around, it goes straight back to boiling heat. She fiddles with it until she finds a temperature just a little too hot to be comfortable, and then steps back into the water.

Brown water circles the drain, taking with it everything that's been caked on her body for months. The dried blood melts off her hands, the water diluting it into a sickly yellow color, and once they're clean she tries to scrub her fingers through her hair without much luck.

Daxter darts in and out of the water, playing in the warm mist but not wanting to get soaked. Eventually she perches on the chair, tiny droplets clinging to the tips of her fur. Jak looks down at her friend, and Dax raises her chin to meet Jak's eyes. The hero's question is asked again, this time silently, speaking through her expressions just as she did years ago. She feels manipulative for doing it; Daxter's ears droop with guilt.

"Don't get mad." Daxter says it like she's trying to talk a Lurker out of charging, a bright, soothing tone colored with nervousness. Jak's throat closes up.

"I read their files on you."

Jak's hand has to go out to the wall for balance. "You _what_?"

"There were paper records in a filing cabinet, I found the one with your picture in an' stole it, okay? I took it out, read it until I knew every damn thing, and then I burned it."

"You burned it."

"Lit it up and watched it go, baby. Burned it to ashes and burned the ashes."

Jak risks a glance at her friend, afraid of the rage that might rise up inside her if she looks. There's just Daxter, looking smaller than Jak has ever seen her, but with determination in her eyes. "How _else_ was I s'posed to know how to help you, Jak?"

She doesn't know what she's feeling. Her hair is still not being penetrated by the water. She grabs an abandoned bar of soap, and lathers up her hands.

It makes a difference; her fingers work through the thick mass of grime that has formed around her hair, and it loosens. Slowly, but it does.

She keeps working at it for what feels like a long time, until fistfuls of blonde hair are clustered around the drain. Daxter doesn't speak to her, but she also isn't silent, humming rude old songs they used to make up around the campfire.

By the time she's done, her hair is much smoother- but also thinner, and it breaks.

It's still the unruly mane she's always had. Even if it has been weeded, there's still some left. It will still grow.

28

The door doesn't shut as quietly behind her as she would have liked, alerting Torn to her presence in the room. She doesn't feel so high-strung now; the smell of the prison (_of Erol of the guards and the doctors_) has been washed off, her lizard-brain slowly releasing its iron grip on her fight-or-flight reflex. Nevertheless, she doesn't want him close, so she moves to the opposite side of the table, the side closer to the door. Stands in front of him, stares him in the eyes when he bothers to look up at her.

He assumes she's there purely for the Underground's benefit, without any motives of her own. He wants a soldier, who signed up willing to follow orders. She isn't one, and she didn't. Jak is in this to find the Shadow and hurt the Baron, nothing else.

Causing mayhem for the KG is a bonus, though. Her mission is to go into a KG fortress, blow some things up, get away and not die. Sounds like a good day to her.

"More patrols than you can spit at, automated turrets, cameras everywhere. There's a good chance you'll be spotted and your face revealed to the public." He cautions her, giving her a way out if she needs one.

She doesn't. "I don't care. If the bastard knows it's me doing it, all the better."

Torn scoffs at her a little, at her teenage bravado, as he points them to the exit with a sharp glare.

It's not until she's halfway out the door that she realizes that the ammo dump she's supposed to destroy is inside the very KG Fortress that she escaped from, too late to find some excuse not to do it.

29

This part of the building doesn't smell like anywhere she'd been before, but the lights are the same. Bare bulbs, shadows coating the walls along with the rust and cobwebs.

The giant tank is new.

She stares for a moment, intimidated by the huge machine; it looks like a very powerful gun on top of a steamroller. With spikes.

She feels that the spikes might just be overdoing it a little.

The tank spots her when she goes through the doorway, and she starts to run. Daxter points out to her that the gun doesn't aim very fast, so all Jak has to do is keep moving around and it can't hit her.

Well, Daxter screams at her to "_move faster dammit Jak don't you dare let it hit us holy shit we're going to die"_, from which she draws the above conclusion. She translates Daxter-speak in her head, most of the time.

It's difficult; she doesn't like being shot at (who does? Torn, probably) and the Fortress is about three hallways down from where she was tortured on a regular basis, so she's jumpy and pissed, which both make her clumsy.

Three shots singe her ankles. She can smell the burned flesh.

When she disables the field that kept her cut off, she steps off into the antechamber for a minute. Lets herself breathe, pulls a leg up to look at the damage. She has to lean against the wall to keep herself from falling while on one leg. There are black wings fluttering at the edges of her vision; thinking back, she can't remember precisely the last time she had slept or eaten, but she knows it would have been in the prison (unconsciousness doesn't count).

So she has to storm a heavily guarded government facility, and destroy a delightfully vague ammo store- while unarmed, hallucinating from sleep-deprivation, twitching with panic, and weak from lack of food.

Torn is going to have hell to deal with by the time she gets done.

Jak grits her teeth, pushes herself off the wall, and goes looking for some KG to kill.

30

So _that's_ what a Metal-Head looks like. The name is certainly apt. Their skull gems shine with a dull yellow light- that's what she'll need for the Oracle, she tries to memorize their shape and color- and underneath the armor plating their skin is mottled grey.

And the KG are giving them an Eco-shipment? On Praxis' orders, nonetheless?

When Praxis is dead at her feet, she should remember to rap on his forehead to see if it echoes.

There's a deep, creaking _whirrr?_ from behind her. The tank has- by some fluke of the universe- managed to _sneak up on them_. How does a _tank_ do that?

"Fuck." Jak breathes.

"Son of a _whore_!_ Run_!" Daxter screeches.

Jak doesn't need to be told twice. She jumps- a shot goes underneath her, barely, and she takes off.

There's a large silo-looking hunk of metal in the middle of the room. She barrels towards it, with no plan whatsoever; her heart is pounding, vision beginning to swim, but she hasn't felt this alive in a long time.

"Hey, get behind those big pokey things!" Daxter sound like she's just had an idea. The silo is indeed surrounded by what are probably explosive projectiles.

Jak moves towards the missiles, and as she dodges another shot from the tank, it hits one-

There is a terrific explosion.

Daxter laughs, her claws digging into the shoulder-pad. "Bull's-eye!"

They circle the room for a few minutes- Jak gets another burn, this time on her side- leading the tank to the explosives. Every _boom_ that goes off robs her of a little more of her hearing and balance, making it harder to keep running. She stumbles more than once.

"Jak! Door's open!" She turns around; the door on the opposite wall is opening, and it takes her a second to realize there's an alarm sounding- something's going to blow up, she can feel it in her bones.

"Let's _go!_"

Jak races for the door. Her feet pound against the metal, and she crouches in the doorway, pulling Daxter in towards her chest so she doesn't fall alone. She pushes off with all her strength and hopes it's enough.

Her instincts weren't wrong. The building's explosion makes her ears ring, leaves her disoriented as she gets thrown outdoors, rolling off aluminum roofs without a clear sense of direction.

The ground slams into her and the whole world spins. Laying down feels nice. Not moving feels nice. Everything else feels fairly awful.

Daxter crawls on top of her chest and flops there.

"Jak, I know you're a crazy adrenaline junkie. But this place is just a _little_ too exciting for me. I'm takin' the next bus outta here."

They giggle together, breathlessly, not so much because it's funny as it is because they're alive.

* * *

**Hi guys :3 I can't believe people are actually reading and reviewing this, you's given me a happie :D So great thanks to DarkEcoFreak, Detallista 257, Taru Toshito, and my lovely Guest and Anonymous :) **

**Special thanks to Taru, she beta'd this chapter :) Thanks milady, you up for the next one as well?**

**Anyways, since I can't reply to anonymous comments (I C U THAR CORDATES_ROCK) but I really like to talk about this fic, Guest commented on the weirdness of girl!Jak getting her first period at fifteen; I got mine at twelve, but I regularly talk to a friend's little sister, who is fourteen and freaked that she hasn't gotten it yet. She eats fine, it's not amenorrhea, she's just... kinda late. Bodies are weird. I think Jak's a late bloomer, probably (also DRAMA DAMMIT). And, as the Bird Lady doesn't strike me as being completely sane, it likely wouldn't have crossed her mind until Jak or Daxter showed up frantic with "HOLY SHIT I'M BLEEDING WHAT DO". **

**Which, well, Daxter got furry, Jak didn't start until she was locked up, and the Bird Lady probably got eaten by a Metal-Head. ****So much for that plan. And the last paragraph... Well, whether she was sterilized purposefully or not, I don't think a fetus would be able to healthfully develop in an environment saturated with the most volatile substance in existence, so girl!Jak would not be able to maek babby. Her periods or lack thereof will come up later, though.**

**SO MUCH CANON DIALOGUE. Would you guys rather I type out canon dialogue, or just skim over it with Jak's internal monologue? I feel like I'm plagiarizing if I put it in, but without it the story loses some flow. As it is, I'm trying to only put it in if something has changed from canon, i.e. some comment on Jak being female. (Krew is uncomfortably creepy to write btw, he reminds me of my pedo!uncle.)**

**Also I can't write Daxter for shit, so if anyone could volunteer to help me generate some awesome dialogue for her it would be great. :P Girl!Daxter is at least not so weirdly, jokingly misogynistic. I know it's supposed to be funny, but some of the shit coming out of that butthead's mouth just strikes me wrong. At least he lets up on it in later games; Tess straightens him out a little. XD I can't wait to write Tess, she's my favourite.**

**The phrase "Burn the ashes and then burn the ashes" is the fireman's slogan from Ray Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, which contests with Watership Down as my favourite book.**

**I'll shut up now. **

**I love you,**

**(yes, even you)**

**S.S.o.D.**


	4. Chapter 4

"Don't ever fight with Lisbeth Salander. Her attitude towards the rest of the world is that if someone threatens her with a gun, she'll get a bigger gun." - Steig Larsson, "The Girl Who Played With Fire"

31

Daxter threatens and cajoles her into finding a place to sleep, but as she plants herself in a Havenite's front stoop, she realizes that she still isn't tired. Hallucinating because she hasn't slept in so long, yes; tired, no.

Evidently Praxis wanted a weapon that wouldn't stop until it absolutely had to. And he'd gotten it.

Jak closes her eyes. It does feel good to rest, but she's not sure she can achieve sleep. Even if she does, there are nightmares waiting for her. The slight drizzle drifting over the city mutes the sounds and the smells. Everything gets just a little foggier; she can hear zoomers racing past and groups of people having loud conversations in the apartments above, but the rain falling on metal (or on wood, or cobblestone, or brick, and each one makes a different type of noise) gives her other things to hear; the scents are the same way. The water in the air dims them a little, leaving her room to think.

The light of the city is a pleasant blue-grey, like mist under moonlight. It's cold, but Jak is used to the cold by now, and it's a prettier sight than she's seen in a long while. Daxter fucked off somewhere, telling her to "_stay put, dammit, 'cause gettin' another rescue attempt together will take for-frickin'-ever_" as she crept away into the rain. Her absence puts Jak ill at ease, but what can she do? Dax knows the city. She'll be fine. They'll be fine.

Concrete steps are cold under her legs. She curls up tighter, pulls her knees to her chest, and leans her head against the wall. Slowly she works up the courage to close her eyes again.

The clothes help. The smells help, and the sounds, and the lights. But part of her still thinks she's going to wake up back in her cell.

There's a whistle from the lowest step. Jak glances down, and sees Daxter, who has returned with stale bread and pieces of fruit.

The ottsel climbs up the stairs, leaving her haul next to Jak's hip as she climbs the hero like a tree to curl around her neck. She yawns.

"Have at it, baby, I munched all I needed to on the way back."

Jak picks up a quarter of an orange, a little dry but clean-smelling, turns to her friend with a raised eyebrow. _How'd you get this?_

Her friend scowls with her eyes half-shut in a sleepy, "_are-you-an-idiot_" face. "I was turnin' tricks on the corner. How d'ya think I got it, dumbass? I stole it. They were gonna throw it out anyways, no biggie."

Jak shrugs. Stealing, even to keep from starving, would have been an affront to her two years ago, but she has experience now with the way a body's desperation to stay alive will spit and trample on its host's morals. She bites into the orange- the acidity has her spitting at first, but her tongue remembers the taste of fruit well enough after a moment.

She isn't hungry either. There's only the sensation of something filling; no hunger being satisfied, no joy at having food after going without: like fueling a machine.

Through the weight of food in her stomach, a switch flicks in her brain, realizing that it's (relatively) safe to sleep.

Her head pillowed on the brick wall of the stoop, cleaner and drier and warmer than her body can remember being, Jak watches the rain until she can no longer hold her eyes open.

She does not dream.

32

The first sound Jak hears when she wakes is the unlocking of a door. On instinct alone, she makes it halfway down the road before her mind is fully awake.

The first sound Jak _consciously registers_ is Daxter, swearing loudly not three inches from her ear; the ottsel's claws are neatly stuck into the straps of the harness for her shoulder-plate. Her orange fur is puffed, tail sticking straight out. Jak reaches up and around, detaching her friend's sharp claws from the tough leather as she listens dutifully to Dax's complaining.

"Wouldja give a gal some warning, Jak?! About gave me a heart attack- it was a _loud frickin' noise_, what_ever,_ who _cares?_What were you _thinking,_ boltin' like that?" Jak shrugs; she _wasn't_ thinking, which was most of the problem. The street isn't crowded; a few people walking by that evade eye contact, a guard checking around the corner every so often on his patrol.

Jak looks around, trying to figure out where they are. It's still dark out, clouds covering the early-morning sun; she and Dax had crashed in the first dry spot they found. It's a wonder that the guards didn't ambush them. After their little stunt at the Fortress, she would've been caught on camera and had her image circulated throughout the city for easy identification. It isn't as if she's difficult to spot, with neon green-blonde hair and a bright orange mustelid using her as a perch.

Then again, the KG has its grapevine like any other job, and after her massacres at the Fortress (during her escape, in the alley) it would make sense for them not to want to get in her way.

She watches as the Guard on patrol turns the corner, glances down the road, and turns again. He's gone; she relaxes. She's pretty sure she knows where they are.

Now it's just a question of getting back to the Underground.

Jak stares up, walking slowly to the center of the road. Dax asks what she's doing (colorfully), but gets ignored.

She watches the zoomers as they pass by. One, two, three, four; she chooses her target carefully, waiting...

Closer, closer... She crouches, waiting for her prey-

A man in a battered green zoomer passes close overhead. Jak jumps, grabbing a hold of his arm- he shouts, but she's faster and stronger than he is; he doesn't stand a chance. He gets thrown onto the street, and she uses her momentum to swing her leg up over the seat.

Jak hits the throttle, leaning close to the body of the vehicle. She smiles. Daxter's laughter is loud in her ear.

She's getting the hang of this city.

33

Daxter gripes to herself as they leave HQ. "Delivering cargo! We're delivery girls now! Saved the world once. Best fighters for miles around. Fastest racers anybody's ever heard of. And now we're _delivery girls_. This Krew had better be a hell of a player."

Jak lets her talk, going to inspect the machinery.

The zoomer that waits for her outside the Underground is much nicer than the one she stole to get there. She hops onto the blue-and-yellow machine (what is it with Havenites and painting their vehicles bright colors? A question for another day, perhaps) and revs it, feeling the hum of the engine through the metal. The balance is thrown slightly off by the cargo, but it's nothing she can't handle.

There's a tiny screen on the dash, about the size of her palm, with a small green light on one edge and a red arrow in the center. She supposes that the red arrow is where she is, along with the direction she's facing, while the green dot is where she needs to go. She can do that.

She speeds away, turning hard enough that she nearly rolls them over before she realizes how much more delicate the steering is. Switching hover-zones recklessly, she avoids hitting people and guards (barely). The guards don't even seem to take notice of her, which seems strange, but citizens duck and swerve out of her way.

Still, they're not fast enough. She needs more room.

A ramp leads upwards, to a walkway that zoomers aren't allowed on.

Challenge accepted; Jak leans into the turn, ending up almost upside-down but going up the ramp with great speed, the wind whipping her hair around. Finally, enough space to move. She races across the walkway, causing innocents to throw themselves to the ground so they won't be hurt, and she doesn't care.

Loud noise sizzles through the air, and a beam of heat passes by her head. Jak scowls, moving to the center of the walkway. The KG have evidently gotten their shit together. She keeps moving.

Daxter yells, "Look out!" and suddenly the air is full of light and heat and noise-

They set up a roadblock. How did they know she would be here? Or if they didn't know, who were they waiting for? Questions later, not dying now. Jak speeds up, swerving as much as she dares to keep the shots wild. The walkway continues; as long as it stays in the same direction as the green dot on the map, she'll stay up here instead of down there with the cruisers. She isn't fond of guns when they're aimed at her.

The cruisers follow for a while, but they can't keep up when she's higher than they are; they lose visual and she's in the wind. Some patrolling Guards take notice of her, but they can only get about two shots in before she's out of range.

But eventually she has to get back to the ground; she's run out of walkway.

Jak jumps the zoomer, riding up as far as she can go before she dives to the ground and pushes it to the limit on speed. The cruisers immediately follow, they're right behind her as she races through the city, the run-down slums giving way to sleek, smooth metal and brighter lights. She takes almost no notice, having a grand time leading the KG on a merry chase.

The little red arrow on her map directs her over a large body of water, which would be much prettier if she wasn't being shot at. She'll appreciate natural beauty later. When she's sure it won't be the last thing she ever contemplates. The Guard vehicles seem reluctant to cross water; they slow, losing her trail.

She goes out further, leaving them behind as she gets lost in a line of commuters around the- lake? Pond? Whatever it is, by the time she's circled around a bit, the alarm has been dropped.

Thank the Precursors for the Guard's collective short memory.

Jak drives for a minute longer, trying to figure out the wheres and whys of this part of the city. And when she's ready, she follows the green dot on her map to the Saloon.

She parks the zoomer outside the pub, grabs the package, and heads inside.

34

The pub is very bright. Neon signs line the walls, along with the heads (and more) of animals, and the lights are top-grade. In front of the bar stands a very large man. She has to look up to keep him in sight as she gets closer; he's got to be over a foot taller than she is. He regards her with cool green eyes, disinterested.

Daxter, of course, takes over negotiations of any kind with the ferocity of a Lurker Shark out for blood. She's loud and obnoxious, but the overconfident ineptitude is charming to most, which Dax knows exactly how to manipulate into getting things to run smoothly for them. Though with this crowd it may take some practice.

This isn't cheating Keiran out of his candied monkey-nuts or getting Jak's uncle to let them see his maps. Krew is dangerous. As grossly huge as he is, he does have a power that comes from experience and ruthlessness.

"... and of course, I'd be forced to collect... ah, _slowly_. _Heh heh_. The Underground will take anyone with a pulse these days."

He sinks down on his hover-chair, coming to eye-level just to get uncomfortably close; she knows exactly what he means by "collecting", and it raises her hackles.

"An' you, milady? Working for the Underground, eh? I suppose I could offer you...another line of work. Hmm? Less…strenuous." He chuckles.

Krew assumes she's a whore. _It_ is scratching at the back of her brain, the impulse to tear his throat out difficult to ignore.

(_blood on hands on the floor warm and slick how dare he gut him see how he likes being taken to pieces flesh coming apart under her claws)_

Using all her attention to keep her monster locked down tight, she misses whatever snappy comeback Daxter fires at him, her sarcasm given a cruel edge by real anger. The men in the room couldn't notice, but Jak knows that sound; as hard as Daxter tries not to be seen as an animal, her shifted form does things on instinct. Daxter's _growling_, low in her throat, and the rumbling sound is a strange sort of comfort.

As Dax bristles on her shoulder, cooking up a rant of epic proportions, Jak tries to cut to the point; she's not good at charming people, but maybe she doesn't have to.

"We did you a favor, now it's your turn. Why is the Baron giving Eco to Metal Heads?"

Nope. It earns her an implied threat on her life (implied with all the delicacy of a hatchet). He snarls in her face, his breath a thing of nightmares, "Questions like that could get a person _killed_, 'ey!"

Luckily, Krew then seems to switch his viewpoint on her from "whore" to "weapon", which is a step up but still makes the Dark in her screech for his blood, and he tells his hired gun (Sig?) to give her something for delivering the cargo.

Sig comes closer with a dry scowl on his face, looking down at her. His armor makes very little noise as he moves, he's armed and she isn't- she raises her shoulders, arms out, ready to fight-

The tall man offers her a heavy, dense gun, about the length of her arm and buzzing with what feels like Red Eco. She hefts it, surprised, feeling the balance of the weapon.

This is a development; being shot at won't be nearly as worrying if she can shoot _back_...

She resolves to get over to the gun course as soon as possible.

35

The scatter-gun looks ridiculous in her arms (it's almost thicker around than her waist), but she's starting to get the hang of it. Targets come up; targets blown to pieces. The first few shots had been messy, unsure of where she was aiming. By now she's hitting three targets at once while running, and it's been maybe an hour.

Sig's voice coming up on the communicator made her jump, but despite his intimidating height and profession, he sounded genuine, and very helpful. He walked her through collecting and loading spare ammo, how to aim with both eyes open (she hadn't aimed much without her goggles before) and the importance of cleaning the gun. Daxter had even listened.

She fucks about in the course for a while, shooting cardboard to shreds, listening to the "_dings_" go off infrequently when her "score" gets above a certain level, as if she cares; Jak's just there for the explosions. Eventually Daxter got bored of watching the gun or the targets, and starts to smart off again. Jak tunes her out, affectionately. (What? It's not like she can listen to every single thing Dax ever says.)

She could get used to this. Her thinned-out hair is tied back with the red scarf and her goggles; she's got sturdy boots, a steady gun, and her best friend on her shoulder. Bring on the world.

36

Sig takes her out with him to the Pumping Station. Jak does like him, even if his size and heavy armor does make her nervous whenever he's behind her. Together they take down a good dozen Metal-Heads, and as she's carefully collecting the gems, he's checking his gun for damage.

When they stop to rest after he bags their third crab-head, he shows her how to take the scatter gun apart, clean it, look it over for anything that could make it faulty. They sit together, guns resting on the sand, as Daxter tells bawdy jokes and sings rude limericks.

Fighting with a gun in hand is something she's still figuring out; sometimes she does it on instinct, clocking a Metal-Head with the butt of the gun as she turns, or pulling it close when she spins. And sometimes...

_Sometimes,_ one of them catches her off-guard, and she tries to punch or shoot or kick all at the same time, managing to do none of them. Sometimes the damn Metal-Head jabs a shock-stick at her that feels remarkably like the KG's, and she goes ass-over-teakettle trying to get _away_.

The electric prod goes straight into to her ribs, and she shudders all over as it knocks the air from her lungs and the fight from her muscles. Daxter yelps, reminding Jak of why she can't give up; she struggles to her feet, the beach around her spinning out of view, but the thing is standing over her, jaws open wide-

It screams. Bright red light flashes and it falls over.

Sig appears behind it, sweating but smiling; cheerful from a battle well-fought. "Y'all right, baby girl?"

_Baby girl_: Patronizing, but affectionate. She doesn't protest the nickname, but she's finding breathing a challenge. She makes a _whuff_ sound, her hand curling around her ribs. Daxter, bless her, is already down and probing at it.

"Ah, shit." Sig has lost his happy tone, sounding worried. "Those things hit you wrong, they can do some damage. I got something for it, you need help?"

Jak coughs. Breathes from her stomach and not her chest; it helps alleviate the stinging pain. She forces herself to her feet, staggering along the beach, away from the corpses. Sig digs through the pouch tied around his waist, comes up with a tin and a roll of bandages.

She sits down on the cold sand, leaning back to take the pressure off her chest. Daxter makes some kind of speech to get the bandages and medicine from Sig, but Jak's not paying attention.

Her friend comes back over, awkward on only two legs, carrying both; but Sig stays close, a little bit uncomfortable, but not as bad as it could be if it was someone she didn't know. Sig talks Daxter through how much to put on depending on the size of the burn, and Daxter works the hem of her shirt free from her pants.

Dax lifts up the shirt and- underneath Daxter's lecture on "this is why we listen to the cowardly best friend- to keep from getting ourselves fried"- the noise of Sig's breathing stops.

Jak closes her eyes. She doesn't want to see this. The ointment is cold on her skin, and it numbs the burn (which had hit straight on top of a half-healed bruise, making it feel even worse) before Dax starts to wrap it. The green-yellow bruises up and down her torso are easy to spot (the work of the guards' steel-toed boots) along with various scars, marks, Dark Eco stains, not to mention her jutting ribs. She sighs.

Sig doesn't say much. He doesn't need to.

"You wanna talk about what happened to you, cherry?"

Even Daxter goes quiet. Jak opens her eyes again, stares at the water. "I was an experiment." She offers nothing more; saying even that was harder than pulling out her own front tooth.

It takes a while, but Sig eventually seems to understand that she's not going to continue. "Takin' care of yourself now?"

Daxter grunts, then nods, pulling the bandage a little tighter. "'S my job."

He nods.

They sit quietly through about twenty minutes, until Jak is pretty sure she has her full range of movement back.

And then they move on.

37

Sig says "You did good, rookie" the same way he said "_baby girl_", condescending in a _you're-new-let-me-show-you-the-ropes_ way rather than the _I'm-better-than-you_ tone that most would use. Coming from him it seems friendly; maybe because despite the spiky armor, bionic eye, and frankly terrifying size, he acts like a teenager. He's a warrior, but young at heart- if not in experience.

Praise from him makes something small and needy in Jak's brain want to stand up taller; the rest of her wants to leave that part bleeding in a ditch. She lessens the intensity of her scowl, nods at him, and walks away. (She _absolutely_ doesn't run.)

She has at least twenty-five Skull Gems; they're smaller than they looked from far away, and were difficult to pry from the Metal Heads' corpses, but she picked up as many as she could. (There's black blood on them all, but it probably doesn't matter.) Daxter mutters to herself as Jak jogs through the Water Slums to find the Oracle.

The tiny hut would be difficult to find if it wasn't for the hum of the relic inside. The door opens automatically (she finds this creepy) and she steps inside. She's rather unsure of what she's supposed to do; does it want her to lay them out? She gets closer to the statue, her feet settling on the ragged rug in the middle of the floor.

There's barely a flash before her vision turns all purple.

Jak is blown upwards from the explosion of Dark Eco, the electric stream pounding through her body. She writhes in the air; only the lack of restraints is keeping her from receding completely into her memories of the chair. She growls, twisting and turning as she feels the change come over her.

The Oracle starts to speak, but she catches, "_You do well_-" and then her understanding cuts off, words suddenly becoming unimportant to her as she transforms. There's a strange, new energy humming through her body.

No. _Its_ body. Her mind is still there; even if she isn't precisely in control, she knows what she's doing. This is a start.

It wants to know what It can do now. Jak agrees; together they gather the energy in the palm of her hand, the buzzing in her limbs concentrating into a violet glow. It jumps, claws flashing, and throws the tiny energy-cluster to the ground.

A low-scale explosion erupts, a sphere of Dark energy that would kill or stun anything that wasn't her.

Helpful.

It takes over for a moment, Jak losing the thread of her memories, but all It wants to do is jump around the tiny room, leaving claw marks up and down the walls. It notices Daxter to her left, but pays her no attention. Scared rodent hitching a ride. Makes It feel safe. Makes her feel safe, makes the nightmares go away...

Jak experiences a shift not unlike vertigo, wherein she is somehow two people at once for about twenty seconds; a teenage warrior and the weapon she was made into, two sets of eyes viewing things with the same brain; or perhaps two brains interpreting the same information from one pair of eyes.

Feeling twice over- two minds interpreting the pain, one with dread and the other with bestial surprise- the bone-ridges receding into her skull, her teeth shifting and dulling, her eyes clearing out and skin beginning to feel again.

She gets a little dizzy, leaning down and resting her hands on her knees as she breathes in, then out. Even. Calm. Steady. Don't throw up. The candles flicker in the corners of her eyes, their dim light soothing and grounding.

Once she's not about to empty herself of the little she's eaten in the last few days, Jak stands up straight, rubbing at her eyes and shakes her head.

The door opens in front of her and she sets off at a run.

38

She is so tired of Krew's dancing around a subject. High-class criminal her ass, he only likes to hear himself talk.

So when he tells them to go into the Sewers, and Daxter runs her mouth, Jak chimes in as well.

"We get that you want something done. Tell me who or what you want shot and quit bullshitting."

He explains to her what she has to do- destroy sentries, sure, fine- and _leers_ at her as he promises a gun mod, as if he's promising something else.

Jak grips her gun. He already spelled out that he thought she was a whore. If he makes another pass at her he's getting riddled with holes.

Daxter goes _off_, simultaneously complaining about going into danger and verbally tearing him apart (she's found a way to combine her two favorite pastimes, Precursors help them) until wrapping back around in a grand finale to remind him of the information they were promised. Dax is a master at this stuff.

Jak plants her feet on the rough wooden floor. "We don't do anything for you until you tell us what the Baron gains in trading with the Metal-Heads."

Krew snarls at them, zooming close; Daxter darts behind Jak's leg.

The Metal-Heads need eco; the Baron needs the war. But if this trade has been going on for some time- Jak clenches her teeth.

Why would he go to such drastic measures to create a weapon if the war was a necessity? Was it an act put on to make the people think he was fighting? Was the entire project pointless, two years of her life ground away for absolutely no reason- and if it was, then why would the DWP have been a secret?

Or is Krew lying? Or could his information be false?

Her head hurts. Jak has never been the philosophical type.

She sighs. "Good enough. Give us the coordinates to the sewers entrance and we'll get going."

Krew is still glaring as he hands her the paper with the location printed on it. She doesn't care; what's he going to do, breathe on her?

39

After her difficulties at the Fortress, Jak's learned her lesson; before she starts off for the Sewers; she quietly pilfers some fruit and cheese from a street-vendor and finds a dry, quiet alley to catnap in. It's dusk, the lights of the city just beginning to flicker on, but she breathes in the foggy air and lets her eyes drift closed against the garish neon. She settles herself in against the back wall, old brick flaking against her shirt.

She mutters at Daxter, "Wake me in twenty minutes", but when her friend butts against her neck with an affectionate insult, she can tell it's been more. The dark sky has deepened to a navy-grey, the zoomer traffic has gone very quiet, some of the signs are off. They're up at an hour that no one is normally awake for.

So they find the entrance to the Sewers ("find" is a little vague; they hijack a zoomer and argue constantly about the best way to get there) which turns out to be a ramp leading down to an unsteady lift. The doors open in front of them and she steps through, pulling the scatter gun from its holster. She taps her trigger finger irritably. The elevator is rattling against stone walls and metal girders, dust falling as the wheels move for the first time in weeks.

The lift hits bottom with a loud _clang_, opening into a dank hallway. The smell is awful- waste and mold, not a good combination- but she's smelled worse

(_waste and vomit and blood all overlaid with Dark Eco in sweltering, claustrophobic heat, one tiny drain choking on its load_)

and there's not much she can do about it. There are spots flickering along her vision; she shakes her head to clear it, shoots aside the small lizard-creatures that live on the filthy water, and jogs along the path.

The hallway opens out into a half-lit pool- did a pipe break, or is this city just that decrepit?- and she creeps carefully along the wall, on a narrow shelf of metal. Falling in would be unpleasant.

She jumps onto solid metal, relieved to have escaped the open water, and nearly gets shot. The bullets race over her as she drops to the floor. One of them singes her hair, which she isn't thrilled about.

It takes aim again, and she doesn't want to give it a stationary target; she jumps, runs to one side, jumps as far as she can to the other wall. It's difficult to keep her gun steady, but if she can get an opening-

Jak pulls the trigger as she hears the rough _click_ of the turret locking on.

The explosion is wonderfully loud.

Daxter hoots, grinning, and Jak shoulders the gun. Krew underestimated her? Hell, she underestimated herself. This is easier than she thought it would be.

40

A robotic woman's voice has been programmed to congratulate people leaving the Sewers on their ability to survive that clusterfuck. This city has a very morbid sense of humor.

Jak runs outside, gulping the fresh air with relief. They smell awful, but they're not swimming in it anymore. Daxter shakes herself, disgusted by the state of her fur.

"Lookit this! This is ridiculous! If you don't gimme a turn with that new gun a yours, we are gonna have Words, baby. I deserve compensation for this mess."

She snorts. "If I get it. Krew's gonna try to stiff me."

"Yeah, and he's walking a real thin line. I'll bring the popcorn if he tries. Have I mentioned how much the bastard freaks me out? He's the size of a house and he sloshes over the edges of that chair like water outta the bucket when you tried to balance it on your head and he _smells_. And he makes _faces_ at us." Dax shudders. "I don't know if he wants us in a bed or on a plate and either way he's a creepy fucker."

Jak sighs. "I'll deal with him if I have to, Dax."

"I know that! And those shrively legs, ugh.." She goes on, but Jak lets it become white noise. She dislikes Krew as much as Daxter and it's a relief to have her best friend putting her vague thoughts into words.

So Krew does his best to avoid giving them anything, but there's still something to be found in the Port. To anyone else, it might be scrap, but they work with what they've got.

Jak spends a while tinkering with the gun (she's never been masterful with machinery like Keiran, but she spent enough time in his workshop to hold her own) until everything works correctly.

She lifts it, fitting it against her collarbone. The laser-point sight searches all the way to the distant wall of the room. Pulling the trigger is easier with this than the scatter gun, and better-aimed. Not _as_ damaging, but sacrifices must be made. It's almost as big as she is.

Four hours later, she emerges into the bright daylight, reeking of gunpowder, but closer to contentment than she's been in a while.

* * *

**(PARENTHETICAL STATEMENTS YAY)**

**This was written over spring break, and I've had the hardest time editing it; but I have a new semi-beta coming on board (I think? Are you there, Bex? I gave you my number... I thought you might call... [sherlock reference sorry])**

**Moar canon dialogue :) Copy-pasting makes me feel dirty and ashamed of myself. But it helps. **

**Thanks Taru for beta-ing! **

**(Will probably be edited within an inch of its life later, so check back.)**

**Blessed be,**

**S.S.o.D.**


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